Seraphina(47)

“Archiboros was a pompous ass,” I said. “I preferred Necans.”

“That morose old twig!” cried Kiggs, slapping his leg. “He takes it too far. If he had his way, we’d all be nothing but disembodied minds, floating and ephemeral, completely disconnected from the matter of this world.”

“Would that be so awful?” I said, my voice catching. He’d hit upon something personal again, or else I was so raw I could be hurt by anything, no matter how innocuous.

“I’d have thought you preferred Pontheus, is all,” he said, examining an invisible speck on the sleeve of his doublet, giving me a little space to collect myself.

“A jurisprudence philosopher?”

“Clearly you’ve only read his early work. All his genius is in his later writings.”

“Didn’t he go mad?” I was aiming for supercilious, but the look on his face told me I’d missed and landed squarely on amusing.

“If it was madness, Phina, it was such a madness as you or I could only dream of! I will find you his last book.” He looked at me again and his eyes shone in the lamplight, or with the inner light of delighted anticipation.

His enthusiasm made him beautiful. I was staring; I looked at my hands.

He coughed and rose, tucking the coin into his doublet. “Right. Well. I’ll take Orma’s coin to Eskar tomorrow morning and see what she says. With my luck, she’ll conclude we’re harboring criminals; I don’t think she’s forgiven me for letting that newskin get hurt—or for dancing with her, for that matter. Ask your teacher about the details the knights gave you; I’d appreciate that. If we could identify this rogue, that might impress upon the embassy that we are making a good-faith effort to … I was going to say ‘maintain order,’ but it’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?”

I said, “Until tomorrow, then.” Of course, it was up to him to dismiss me, not the other way around. I cringed at myself.

He seemed not to register the breach in manners. I curtsied to make up for it. He smiled and opened the tower door for me. My mind was racing, scrambling to think up one more thing to say to him before I left, but it came up empty. “Good evening, Seraphina,” he said, and closed the door.

I heard his footfall grow faint as he climbed the tower steps. What did he do up there? It was none of my business, to be sure, but I stood for a long moment with my hand upon the oaken door.

I stood so still, for so long, that I nearly jumped out of my skin when a voice said, “Music Mistress? Are you ill?”

I looked behind me; there stood one of my musicians, the scrawny sackbutist whose name I never remembered, who had apparently been passing by and spotted me looking catatonic. He stepped toward me hesitantly. “Is there anything you need?”

“No,” I croaked, my voice as rough as if I were breaking a years-long vow of silence. “Thank you,” I added. I bent my head, skirted him meekly, and headed back up the hallway toward my rooms.





The next day was the last before Comonot arrived, and Viridius planned to rehearse us within an inch of our lives. I rose extra early; I needed to contact Orma first thing so I could let Kiggs know what he said. I played our chord upon the spinet and waited, scalding my tongue on my tea and wondering where I might find Kiggs this time of day. He had an office near the main guardroom, I knew, but he also spent a lot of time in the city.

When the spinet kitten finally spoke, it startled me so much that I almost lost my teacup. “Can’t talk,” buzzed Orma’s voice. “I’m babysitting Basind.”

I’d forgotten all about the newskin. “When can you talk?”

“Dinner? The Mallet and Mullet? Six?”

“Fine, but make it seven. Viridius intends to flog us until we bleed today.”

“I’ll see you then. Don’t eat that!”

I looked to my cup of tea and back. “Don’t eat what?”

“Not you. Basind.” The kitten crackled, and he was gone.

I sighed, pushed back from the instrument, and heard the great clock above the central courtyard chime. There was more than enough time for my morning routine and breakfast. I was running early, which was just as well. Viridius would find no fault with me today.

I arrived at Castle Orison’s vast great hall early and alert. Carpenters were swarming all over the stage, which could not be a good sign, and I saw neither hide nor wispy hair of the gouty old man. Musicians were everywhere, like ants, but no Viridius. Finally his phlegmatic manservant, Marius, crept up with a message for me: “The master’s not here.”

“What do you mean he’s not here? This is dress rehearsal.”

Marius cleared his throat nervously. “To quote him precisely: ‘Tell Seraphina I leave everything in her more than capable hands. Don’t forget to rehearse smooth entrances and exits!’ ”

I bit back the first word that occurred to me, and the second. “So where is he?”

The man ducked his gray head; apparently my tone had been ungentle. “At the cathedral. His protégé was having some problem—”

“Lars?” I said. Someone with keen hearing stopped in his tracks behind me. I lowered my voice. “What kind of problem, exactly?”

Viridius’s man shrugged. “The master wouldn’t say.”